


Three Attempts to Have Sherlock Record a Christmas Album

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2015 [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, American John, Christmas Carols, Country Music, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 06:45:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5487614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin.  But Sherlock has a reason to say No.</p><p>Until he understands why he should say Yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Attempts to Have Sherlock Record a Christmas Album

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kholly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kholly/gifts).



> The 22nd installment of the Advent Calendar Drabbles for 2015. Today's prompt is from kholly, who wanted Fiddle!Sherlock playing Christmas carols. Unfortunately, Fiddle!Sherlock did not want to play Christmas carols for me. But I thought I'd let him explain why.
> 
> Sherlock's analysis of the meaning of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" is straight from a comment made by Darth_Nonie, because she is clever and awesome. The song Victor sings (and that later inspires Sherlock) is the Pogue's [Fairytale of New York](https://youtu.be/j9jbdgZidu8). The song Sherlock composes at the end (the lyrics that are indented) was written by me. (I have a sort-of tune in mind for it, but feel free to sing to your own.)

_The first attempt_

 

“We should talk about a Christmas album,” said Ned Turner.

 

Sherlock blinked long and slow the record agent.  “It’s July.”

 

“Can’t start too early,” said Ned pragmatically.  His thick Southern accent made him sound particularly contemplative and thoughtful, which Sherlock supposed was part of the reason he used it so extensively.  “And it’ll be good marketing for a tour next year, to have an album on the shelves, even if it’s a Christmas album.  You’ve got a good draw, too, what with the British thing.  Could take one of your British carols, turn it country.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth quirked.  “You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot?”

 

Ned blinked.  “Christ Almighty.  Is that what you sing?  Maybe not.”

 

“Hmm!”

 

“Ain’t there something a bit more…” Ned searched for the word. “ _Religious-_ like?”

 

“There’s always _In Excelsis Deo_ ,” said Sherlock dryly.  “But it’s a moot point, as I will not be recording a Christmas album.  In _July_.”

 

“Well, think on it,” said Ned, and turned back to the matter at hand.  “Now, about that music I gave you last week—“

 

“I need to talk to the writer,” said Sherlock, and the idea of a Christmas album was off the table.

 

But not off his mind. 

 

*

 

_It’s Christmas Eve in the drunk tank…._

 

Sherlock remembered.  Sometimes, he remembered too well.

 

*

 

Victor sang. 

 

In the mornings before breakfast.  In the afternoons after lunch.  In the gloaming, when they should have been taking tea like normal people but were sitting in folding chairs in a make-shift circle while being prompted to share the intimate details of their addictions.

 

Victor sang. 

 

His voice was never in tune, and he sang as if this did not matter to him in the slightest.  It probably didn’t.

 

Still, it was something of a surprise the day he started singing Christmas carols.

 

Since it was _July_. 

 

“ _It’s beginning to look a lot like Christ-mas_!”

 

Victor’s voice echoed down the long corridor.  Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes and turning back to his book.

 

“Oh, for Chrissake,” grumbled Tony on the other end of the patients’ lounge.  Sherlock ignored him, as did everyone else.  “Can’t he read a calendar?”

 

“ _Ev’rywhere we can’t go_ ,” continued Victor, his voice getting louder as he approached.  The revised lyrics were clear attempt to point out the obvious, and Sherlock shook his head while he kept reading.

 

“That’s the truth,” said Paula, and at least earned herself a chuckle from a few of the others.

 

The chuckle grew into outright guffaws as Victor entered the lounge.  He’d decked out his grey sweats with red and green craft-paper ribbons, with plastic spoons cut off at the handle and painted gold in a clear attempt to resemble bells.  He’d even managed to make himself a set of antlers, and these were perched on his head at an angle.

 

“Ho ho ho, mates!” shouted Victor.  “Happy Christmas!”

 

“It’s _July_!” shouted Tony.  “And 38 degrees outside!”

 

“Perfect weather for caroling!” Victor shouted right back.  “ _God rest ye merry, Anthony, let not my songs dismay!  For we are going caroling upon this Ju-ly day!_ ”

 

“I’m going back to my room,” snapped Tony, and threw his magazine down in disgust before heading to the door.

 

“I wouldn’t call Tony _merry_ ,” said Paula.  “More like _grumpy_.”

 

“Piss off,” snapped Tony, and left the room.

 

Victor just turned to the hall and sang louder.

 

“ _To save us all from boredom and let not the psychs all say_ —“

 

A door slammed down the hall; more than likely Tony’s as he shut himself in his room.  Victor turned and grinned triumphantly.

 

“Good timing there, I couldn’t think of the next line,” he said, the Aussie accent much more discernable when he wasn’t singing.  Victor flopped down on the sofa beside Sherlock.  “Wotcha, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock turned a page in his book. “You _are_ aware that the song is not actually about the desire that God will assist the joyous gentlemen with sleep, but that God will give the gentlemen ongoing joy.”

 

“Huh, is that right?” said Victor.  “Well.  Still applies, in Tony’s case.  He could use a bit more joy.”

 

Victor reached over and plucked the book out of Sherlock’s hands.  Sherlock scowled at him, but Victor’s grin was impervious. 

 

“Right then,” said Victor.  “You coming, or not?”

 

“Not,” said Sherlock, and watched as Victor convinced one or two of the other patients to join him in an impromptu caroling session for the nurses on staff.  The rag-tag group managed to stumble through Jingle Bells and Hark the Herald Angels Sing, before Victor launched them into Fairytale of New York, which promptly ended the official caroling session, although Victor could be heard continuing the song as the orderlies dragged him back to his room.

 

Sherlock noted the particular glee Victor sang the bit about _You’re a bum, you’re a punk, you’re an old slut on junk_.

 

Appropriate given their location, at least, he thought, and went back to his book.

 

*

 

_The second attempt_

 

“So,” said Ned Turner, his voice scratchy and distant on the terrible mobile connection, “given any thought to that Christmas album?”

 

Sherlock frowned and resisted the urge to just hang up on Turner.  He could even claim it was the poor reception, that the call had been dropped by no fault of Sherlock’s own.

 

Turner wouldn’t believe it, but he wouldn’t call him on it, either.

 

“Ned,” said Sherlock, patiently.  “It’s July.  _Again_.”

 

“Brad’s in the recording studio right now, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock let out a slow breath of air.  He could see John coming around the front end of the bus now; the slow easy walk of him, the way he held himself in tightly, even in the warm July air, his shirt-sleeves rolled up as if he’d much rather have worn them long, and bundled himself up against the cold.

 

John Watson was a man who was better in the cold, Sherlock thought.  Rain-drenched and smelling of mud and fresh earth.  He didn’t look right, not in the dry and dusty parking lot somewhere in wherever the fuck they were.

 

“That song last year, the one about the maggots?  I don’t know how the hell it’s a carol but you could probably countrify it.”  Ned still sounded doubtful.

 

“No,” said Sherlock firmly, and disconnected the call.

 

*

 

It was well past midnight when the door opened to Sherlock’s room.  He wasn’t asleep – he never slept – but the rules clearly stated that all patients had to be in their beds, lights out, at ten.  Sherlock used the time to work on his mind palace.

 

He was busily rearranging the attic when he felt the mattress dip as Victor climbed into Sherlock’s bed.  By the time he’d worked his way back to the surface, Victor had made himself comfortable, one arm flung over Sherlock’s chest, their legs tangled together.

 

“You could have come,” said Victor, accusatorily.

 

“Hardly.”

 

“It was _fun_ ,” insisted Victor.

 

“It’s _July_.”

 

Victor shrugged.  “I know, mate, but….”  Victor buried his nose in Sherlock’s robe.  “It still feels like Christmas to me.  All the warm air and sunny days?  We’d open the prezzies out on the balcony as long as it wasn’t raining.  Go to the beach that afternoon, shrimp on the barbie, bonfire after dark.”

 

Victor sighed; his arms tightened around Sherlock for a moment.  “I know it’s July.  I know it’s snowing down under, I know it’ll be snowing here when Christmas comes ‘round.  Snow just never felt like Christmas to me.”

 

“No,” said Sherlock, and Victor chuckled.

 

“Just felt like Christmas today,” said Victor.  “It was nice to feel something again, you know?”

 

Sherlock didn’t say anything; Victor didn’t really expect it, and within a minute, he was asleep.

 

Sherlock let him sleep.  They wouldn’t come looking for him for a few hours yet, and Victor claimed to sleep better near Sherlock.

 

When Sherlock woke, Victor was gone.

 

When Christmas came around for real, Victor was dead.

 

*

 

_The third attempt_

Sherlock thought of the heat in clichés.  The heat itself was a cliché, so this shouldn’t have surprised anyone.  _Hot as an oven, hot as hell, hot as blazes, fry an egg on the sidewalk_.

 

The fact that he called it a “sidewalk” was a clear sign that he’d spent far too long in the States.  Or far too long listening to John Watson.  He wasn’t sure which. 

 

John was in the kitchen, whistling something under his breath.  John whistled, when he composed, and didn’t even realize it.  Didn’t hear it, would have denied it if Sherlock had pointed it out.  Sherlock was tempted to record him and play it back, but then John might have made an extra effort to _stop_ whistling, and that wasn’t the reaction Sherlock wanted.  Better to let John go as he was.

 

Right now, he was whistling.  Something a bit melancholy that didn’t quite match the weather outside the window.

 

John stopped whistling when the phone rang.  Sherlock didn’t bother to move; he was still working on the latest instrumentation by the window, and the only person he’d want to talk to while he was working was already in the apartment.

 

 _Flat_ , Sherlock scolded himself.  It was a _flat_.  Christ, he needed a trip back home, if he was starting to think in American in his head like this.  And London might be hot in July, but it wouldn’t be a bloody cliché, at least.

 

“Oh, hello, Ned, yes, he’s here,” said John, and Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes.  John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who turned his back on him and furiously scribbled on his music sheets.

 

Utter nonsense – not even _letters_ , but maybe it’d look good enough to fool John.

 

“Oh, sure, he’s not too busy,” said John, and Sherlock thought idly about adopting a spider in retaliation.  “Here you go.”

 

Sherlock took the phone with a certain amount of distaste.  Before Ned could even speak, he said, as clearly and as forcefully as he could, “ _It’s. July_.”

 

And then he disconnected the call and dropped the phone on the nearby chair, because John would complain if he broke it.

 

John stared at him.  “What,” he said finally, “was _that_ about?”

 

“Every July, Ned asks me to record a Christmas album.”

 

“Uh-huh,” said John slowly.  “And?”

 

Sherlock stared at John. “It’s _July_.”

 

“Yes,” said John, “that’s when people record Christmas albums.”

 

“It’s _July_ ,” repeated Sherlock, wondering when everyone had lost their minds. He turned his back on John, and went back to work.

 

John sighed.  Sherlock knew he was rubbing his temples, shaking his head – and then heading back to whatever he was doing in the kitchen before the phone call that wasn’t.

 

A few minutes later, the whistling began anew.

 

And a few minutes after _that_.

 

“Christmas in July,” sang John softly.  “The sun is shining high.  The birds are in the _sky_.”

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth, and concentrated on his own notes.

 

“I swear I cannot lie.  I feel like making pumpkin pie. For Christmas in July.”

 

“I’m taking away your NSAI membership card,” snapped Sherlock, and John let out an amused snort.

 

“It’s not a bad idea,” said John, just as pragmatically as Ned had been, when he’d first made the proposal, long before Sherlock had even known John’s name.  “Christmas albums sell every year.  Even the bad ones.”

 

“Exactly why I will not add to the plethora that already exist.”

 

“Huh.  I don’t think I’ve ever even _heard_ a Christmas song from you.”

 

“Of course not, John.  I don’t play them.”

 

John stared at him.  “What, ever?”

 

“Don’t tell me you’re suddenly overcome with Christmas spirit, John,” said Sherlock pointedly.  “You’re just as content as I am with Chinese take-away and the cinema in the afternoon.”

 

 _Ha_.  Score two points for Britishisms in the face of unrelenting American idioms.

 

John didn’t say anything, and after a moment, went back to whatever he’d been doing. 

 

The whistling picked up again, the same tune as before John had started singing the terrible lyrics.

 

Melancholy, and quiet, and as soft as falling snow, or the lap of waves upon a beach.  The crackle of a bonfire, and the gentle rustle of someone rolling over on a too-small bed, warm in the otherwise artificially cold night.

 

_It was Christmas Eve babe_

_In the drunk tank_ …

 

Sherlock’s mouth quirked.  “John,” he said clearly.  “Have you ever heard the song Fairytale of New York?”

 

The whistling stopped.  “No, can’t say it’s familiar.”

 

“Go look it up,” Sherlock advised.  “And tell me what you think.”

 

“All right,” said John, and went to the computer.

 

_You took my dreams from me_

_When I first found you_

_I kept them with me babe_

_I put them with my own_

_Can't make it all alone_

_I've built my dreams around you_

 

John’s whistling continued, all the way back in the apartment. 

 

Sherlock didn’t compose lyrics very often.  That was John’s area of expertise.

 

But sometimes, the words came so easily, so simply – the old adage about little cat-feet – that Sherlock had learned, watching John, to just let them flow.

 

Sherlock counted out the beats, translated it into notes, and by the time the whistling had faded as John began to listen to the song on YouTube, he’d already begun to write down the words carefully forming in his mind.

 

> _A square peg that fits in a perfectly round hole_
> 
> _A cat in a collar_
> 
> _A sock with a hole_
> 
> _The moon pasted paper_
> 
> _In a flawless blue sky_
> 
> _And Christmas in July._

 

Sherlock turned the music over, and quietly began to write.

 

> _And the world’s full of impossible things_
> 
> _Misfits and loonies and puppets on strings_
> 
> _We all dance to the same tune in one-two-four time_
> 
> _And never have Christmas in July._

> _We learn when we’re young and impressionable_
> 
> _There things that are wrong_
> 
> _And things reputable_
> 
> _We march to the drummer_
> 
> _That we’re told is the right_
> 
> _Unlike Christmas in July_

> _And the world’s full of impossible things_
> 
> _But don’t pay attention to what fancy brings_
> 
> _Stay on the right path, we all must comply_
> 
> _And leave off Christmas in July_

 

“What the _hell_ , Sherlock!” shouted John from the back.  “This ain’t Christmas music!”

 

“It will be once we countrify it, as Ned so quaintly puts it,” Sherlock called back, and kept writing.

> _Here is the secret to which I give voice_
> 
> _There’s something in the knowing_
> 
> _Impossible joys_
> 
> _If something is wrong_
> 
> _Only love makes it right_
> 
> _Like Christmas in July_

 

“ _Maggots_?  Are you _serious_ , Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock grinned. 

 

> _There’s heat on the pavement_
> 
> _The sun shines overhead_
> 
> _And it’s not cold enough_
> 
> _For a hat on my head._
> 
> _But I’ll sit here and cherish_
> 
> _Each moment that’s mine_
> 
> _Of this Christmas in July._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm publishing a book in January! [Check out my website to learn more.](http://geni.us/1CRS)


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